


grapholagnia

by theelusiveflamingo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Character Death, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 02:52:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theelusiveflamingo/pseuds/theelusiveflamingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Stannis has left are certain photographs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	grapholagnia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/gifts).



The photos sit in a manila envelope underneath tax documents from the mid-90s in the file cabinet.  Third drawer down.  The envelope should be replaced; one of the metal tabs has fallen off and there is a regrettable sweat ring from a desperate alcoholic beverage marring the tan surface.

He could easily replace the envelope, having many unused ones in the room, but he likes the mundane look of it.  It does not betray its contents.

With hands that shake anytime they go near the damned envelope, he pries open the remaining metal tab and dumps the photos out onto his desk.  They spill out in a waterfall of muted film.  At least 35mm doesn’t fade as fast as memory.

He spins in his desk chair to make sure no one is behind him.  He lives alone, and the only sound that can be heard in the apartment comes from his bedroom, where Beethoven’s sonata no. 8, 2nd movement is playing.  Why has he chosen this—it’s  _pedestrian_ , which embarrasses him, and it’s  _sentimental_ , which he never wants to feel again, and what he should do right now is get up and take the record off the turntable and go to sleep early so he can wake up tomorrow with all his wits about him, damn it.  What he does instead is spread out the photos with one hand while conducting the shameful symphony with the other—the percussion of the belt buckle, the song of the zipper, the rustle of the audience of his suit pants and briefs.

A hotel room in Florida, 1996, the sort that has a balcony with room for two white beach chairs and not much else.  He didn’t have the tough skin Davos had from his years on the water, so they spent the afternoon indoors in the air-conditioning, waiting for the sun to climb down from its miserable apex so they could venture outside safe from burning.

Being inside for all those hours required  _entertainment_.  Neither was one for daytime television, and Davos, though smart as a whip in so many enviable ways, had little patience for reading.  This left them with conversation and a camera.

 _I know someone who’ll develop pictures of anything. He won’t ask questions._ He could still remember the conversation, though years and years had passed.

_There are worse people I can imagine seeing nude photos of me than your one-hour photo booth friends._

_Like who?_ Davos laughed.

_I’m having visions of my daughter somehow stumbling across them in ten years.  I can’t risk it, Davos._

Davos took a sip of the beer he’d been nursing all afternoon.   _So take them of me then.  I always wanted to be a model._

How had the photos survived?

Now he spreads them out before him and stares at the images as he begins to stroke himself fast, rough, the way calloused hands might (the way calloused hands  _had)._ He was not a good photographer back in 1996, and some are out of focus, some too close-up, some framed in a way that has little aesthetic merit.  But some are more than sufficient.

He stares at Davos leaning back on the rumpled pillows and stiff hotel bedspread, his legs spread wide and his erection—pink at the tip, he notices every time—pointing towards his stomach, heavy from arousal.  In some, Davos’s shortened fingers are wrapped lewdly around his cock.  It is easy to remember what came after these pictures, and his breath shortens as he shifts his hips to spread his legs further, matching Davos’s.

In front of the photographs it’s all over in a matter of minutes, as though everything about this has to be as humiliating as possible.  He tries not to stare into Davos’s eyes as he reaches climax, but old habits die hard, and he leaves his eyes open as that one brief moment of pleasure finds him.

Then the 3rd movement is on, and the moment is over, and all he is doing is staring at that left hand, at the shortened fingers, at everything but those eyes and that smile.

He’d cut off the fingers on his own left hand if he could, to bring him back, or at least some sick simulacrum of the man.  He’d do all that and more to forget the word  _metastasis_ , to forget the man in the hospital bed: some memories didn’t even have the consideration to fade gracefully like the film in front of him, instead staying as sharp and fresh as digital.

But there is nothing he can do, no use bloodying a bloodless life for naught but a child’s romanticism.  The photos go back in the envelope.  The metal tab folds down.  The envelope slips back into its place.  The drawer slides shut.  The lights go out.


End file.
